


Number Twenty-Seven

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Facebook Prompts [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, John's Smile, M/M, Sherlock's Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 11:37:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10162265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Why can't Sherlock identify the tobacco ash in evidence? John is pleasantly surprised to find out why.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for this contains spoilers, so it's at the end. I knew there was an adorable little story in it as soon as I saw it!  
> For Stacey :)

“Finally!” Lestrade said, as John and Sherlock arrived at Scotland Yard. “This evidence isn’t going to analyse itself, you know.”

Sherlock didn’t speak, looking an irritable Lestrade up and down before asking silkily, “Is my brother keeping you up at night, Detective Inspector?” He grinned to himself as Lestrade sputtered.

When he’d pulled himself together enough to speak, Lestrade snapped, “Look at this, will you?” He thrust a clear plastic evidence bag at Sherlock, scowling at John as he did so. John sidled over and raised one eyebrow at Lestrade, a knowing smirk on his face. Lestrade rolled his eyes, the colour rising in his face.

Just as John was about to say something, Sherlock thrust the evidence bag at Lestrade, sneered, “Even Anderson should be able to figure out this. Why did you call me in for this?” and walked out.

John blinked at the venom in Sherlock’s voice. Even for him, this was an extreme reaction.

Lestrade had answered Sherlock, even though he was gone. “You know 243 kinds of tobacco ash…” he turned to John, finishing his sentence imploringly, “…and there’s a backlog in the lab!”

John shrugged then left to chase down Sherlock. What the hell had that been about?

“What the hell was that about?” John asked Sherlock. He was easy to find, in the end, curled up on the sofa at Baker Street. He was ignoring John, his face twisted into an intense scowl.

“Come on, Sherlock, you’ve never refused to help before, even if it is an easy case.” John sat beside Sherlock on the sofa, looking closely at his best friend. His arm twitched as he longed to pull Sherlock close, to comfort him properly. That wasn’t the kind of relationship Sherlock wanted, John reminded himself, and he had to respect his wishes. Right now it was harder than usual to keep that in his mind.

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly. This level of anguish was beyond his usual dramatics. John could see that Sherlock was genuinely hurting, and he suspected something to do with whatever happened with Lestrade.

“If you don’t start telling me what’s wrong, I’ll…” John hesitated until inspiration hit. “I’ll call Mycroft, he’ll come and ask you.”

 This had the desired result, kind of – rather than scowling into thin air, Sherlock directed his scowl to John. “Don’t you dare.”

John grinned, pleased to have a reaction. If Sherlock had sunk into his mind palace, it would have been much more difficult to retrieve him. John raised an eyebrow in question.

Sherlock sighed. “I didn’t not want to help Lestrade.” He said evasively. John waited patiently. Now that the difficult part was over, he had to be patient and let Sherlock get to his point in his own time. Remaining silent had proved to be the easiest strategy in the past.

“I just...wasn’t…certain…of the type of ash it was.” John raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Sherlock continued to speak in discrete sentences, the silence in between ringing loudly as John sat wordlessly.

“I haven’t accessed that information in a long time. It was stored in an old room in an old area of my mind palace. When I saw the bag contained ash, I knew I wouldn’t be able to tell Lestrade what it was.” His face turned away from John, though the flush on his neck was visible. “That room was full of data, old data, and I had to delete it for…new data.”

He stopped for a long while, long enough that John asked tentatively, his voice low, “What new data, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s body had tensed, and John, worried that he would bolt, put one hand on his knee. Sherlock jumped at the touch, and just as John went to withdraw his hand, Sherlock’s shot out and covered it, anchoring it to him. The heat of his body, above and below, warmed John’s fingers, and they clutched reflexively at Sherlock’s bony knee.

“Sherlock?” John repeated, fighting to quell the hopeful response to his touch.

Without speaking, Sherlock drew and released a long, shuddering breath. His voice was low and deep, and he would not look at John. “I have had to delete a significant amount of data, John, in order to expand one wing of my mind palace. The newest wing. The John Watson wing.” John inhaled sharply, but held his tongue as Sherlock continued. “I needed more room, John for all the things I know about you that I simply have to keep. All the details, how can one person have so many details?” He sounded bewildered, John registered over the pounding of his heart. “And why, John, why do I have to keep it all? Why does it matter exactly how the length of your shower correlates with your sleep patterns? Or why you only watch the Doctor Who Christmas Special while drinking eggnog?”

John shook his head, then realised Sherlock couldn’t see him. He shifted to kneel on the floor before Sherlock, ignoring the cold hardness against his kneecaps. His heart was still galloping, and butterflies had taken flight in his stomach. I have to take the initiative, John thought, or we might never have our chance. “Sherlock,” he said, “I think I might have an idea why you want to keep all the information you can about me.”

Sherlock turned his head to John, their eyes locking. His expression was a little frightened, which John had heard in his voice, and a little apprehensive. There was something else there too, which John recognised as desire. It made him smile, his hope validated, albeit tentatively.

“What if I told you that right now I would very much like to kiss you, Sherlock?” John asked carefully.

Sherlock’s eyes grew wide, the fear dissolving as the desire expanded his pupils. “You would?” Sherlock whispered.

“I would.” John replied, and to his immense relief, Sherlock nodded hesitantly.

John held their gaze steady for a long moment, watching the emotions and colours shift in Sherlock’s eyes. Finally, with agonizing slowness, he leaned in, eyes closing as his lips pressed against Sherlock. Any lingering doubt he had was erased by the mingled exhalation and moan of release from Sherlock. John let out a groan of his own, their lips sliding over each other as the wold expanded and contracted around them, unnoticed. Trailing his lips across Sherlock’s cheek, John sought out his ear, laying kisses over the skin below it.

“What else have you noticed about me, Sherlock?” John whispered.

Sherlock smiled. “I deleted the ash analysis data because I needed to be able keep an accurate record of your laughs, John.”

John smiled then, allowing a soft chuckle to sound through his parted lips. He turned his face to Sherlock’s, looking into his eyes. “What’s this one, then?”

Sherlock’s eyes roamed over his face, his expression intent. His fingers followed the planes of John’s cheeks, his jaw, tracing the lines around his eyes. “This one’s new,” Sherlock said softly, “Number twenty-seven. You tell me, what does this mean, John?”

John’s smile deepened as he answered Sherlock, the echo of his laughter in his voice. “This one means love, Sherlock. It’s only for people I love.”

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: A tweet from Sherlock Holmes to John Watson saying, "The twenty-seven different ways you laugh have replaced my tobacco analysis data."


End file.
